To Have Lived Without Love
by BoffinDoc
Summary: Why would anyone waste time in actively seeking out love? From what Sherlock has experienced thus far, it's the worst feeling he has encountered. Yet at the same time, it's almost as good of a feeling as Lestrade calling with a serial killer running amok. Such conflicting reactions, it's all John's fault too. Now to figure it all out.
1. It's Mrs Hudson's fault

**AN: This can also be found on AO3 under the same name. It will also probably contain cut scenes so this one will remain T with the other turning M after later chapters. So if you'd prefer to read a strictly T fic, or are in an area with prying eyes, ffnet is your safety net. Enjoy!**

_To have lived without love is to never have lived at all._ Sherlock curled his upper lip as he slammed the book shut. This pain in his chest is living? What rubbish. To have lived without knowing love is the greatest blessing of them all, at least that's what Sherlock thinks. Accelerated heartbeat, blood rushing to the wrong places at the simplest of touches, the desire to smile and spew sentiments, disgusting. Why would anyone waste time in actively seeking out love? From what Sherlock has experienced thus far, it's the worst feeling he has encountered. Yet at the same time, it's almost as good of a feeling as Lestrade calling with a serial killer running amok. Such conflicting reactions, it's all John's fault too.

John, with his oatmeal coloured jumpers and easy going smile that hide the strong soldier underneath. Sherlock doesn't know why John's been given responsibility over his heart, or when the change began to take place. If Sherlock knew, he would have taken precautions, avoided the messy results all together. These unfortunate results are what have led to Sherlock's newfound belief, avoid the problem. So here he is, perched on his chair at 221B with the book Mrs. Hudson gave to him (The one he oh so delicately slammed shut) resting on the floor. Mrs. Hudson is to blame too was the detective's belief as well. You go to your housekeeper (Sorry, Landlady, as if) complaining of heart pain amongst other things and all she does is tut and give you a novel.

...

They leaned against the wall chuckling as they tried to catch their breath; they _had_ just run all over Soho. John was sounding like a maniacal six year old that had eaten one too many sweets with Sherlock letting out the laughter he had denied himself for most of his life when it hit him. All Sherlock had done was make eye contact with John when a peculiar ache and happiness filled his chest. It felt like a good punch at first, the wind seemed knocked out of him and his mind for a horrifying second shut down. Then happiness filled him as he stared at his Doctor and everything made sense, at the same time, none of it did. Wincing, Sherlock rubbed a hand over his chest.

"Sherlock," John began as he noticed his friend's discomfort. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, of course." Sherlock waved a hand "winded. Tea, John?"

"I'll start the kettle, are we out of milk again?" John replied knowing by now that Sherlock's questioning tea was not inquiring if John would like a cup, but rather him telling John to make some.

"We have milk, I am merely incubating a certain strain of bacterium and it would not be wise to consume it. Or inhale it for that matter."

"Great." John grumbled. "We passed Tesco's on the way back to the flat, you couldn't have told me then?"

"It seemed irrelevant. Besides, you don't take Earl Grey with milk, I'm sure you'll be able to change your routine slightly until you can get more milk." Sherlock informed the shorter man as he ignored the throbbing in his chest.

"I'll stop by tomorrow after finishing up at the surgery." John gave a resigned shake of his head before heading up the stairs. Sherlock's eyes followed John up the stairs until the man vanished from sight which caused the detective to slump down and hit the floor with his head hitting the wall.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the other side of the wall and Sherlock heard muffled footsteps make their way to the door before it swung open.

"Sherlock, you look horrible. Come here!" The landlady exclaimed with her motherly tendencies taking over. Sherlock reluctantly got up from the floor, he was a genius after all, he knew what would happen if he refused the older woman.

"What happened to you? Never mind, get inside. I'll fix you a cuppa." Mrs. Hudson all but shoved Sherlock into her flat, it contained the same wallpaper as Sherlock and Johns, but it was much more homely. The furniture was well worn and the main colour palette was a wide array of pastels.

"What's wrong, dear? John's a doctor, he can help I'm sure." Mrs. Hudson said as she went into the kitchen.

"Unfortunately, it's not that simple it seems. I feel," Sherlock tried to find a way to voice his feelings. He felt no need to hide such petty things from his landlady. It was futile anyways; the woman was more intelligent than anyone gave her credit for. "My immune system is above such things, but I might be getting ill. I get this unsettling throbbing in my chest on occasion and accelerated pulse. My head buzzes and I can't concentrate. It would all lead to something like the flu, but then I feel happy and like I should laugh." Sherlock glanced over at Mrs. Hudson with concern etched into his face.

"Now, Sherlock, when do you feel this? Perhaps you should go to John and ask." The woman asked as she returned with two steaming cups.

"Well the idea is appreciated, I doubt that is wise. It would seem that these symptoms only occur when John is in the vicinity. I couldn't possibly ask him, he is far too compassionate for his own good and would fear he is the source of this." Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"Oh dear." This statement caused the detective to shoot his head up at Mrs. Hudson who seemed to be eyeing the man with (was that pity?). "And do you feel like this when you think of John too?" This statement caused Sherlock to think back to earlier today at the crime scene when John gave a particularly brilliant diagnosis that helped solve the case. (The strangulation marks were post-mortem, only by a couple hours. The girl drowned, all marks on the body were after her death. Extraordinary of John, and there was that funny feeling again)

"Yes, it would seem so."

"You poor dear, John has no idea?" What was up with Mrs. Hudson?

"Of course he has no idea. I'm only falling ill. Unpleasant, but I suppose it happens."

"How long have you known?" Mrs. Hudson asked causing Sherlock to start feeling a little confused as to where the conversation was heading.

"Known? I've been feeling these symptoms for almost two months now. They have become progressively worse in the past week."

"You're not sick. Poor lamb, doesn't even know." It seemed that the woman was now talking to herself.

"Don't know? I'm afraid I don't follow" Sherlock said briskly.

"What you're feeling is perfectly normal!" He stared at her in one of his rare moments of confusion. "Love! Of course it's love! You two were always so sweet to each other, never believed that you weren't-I'm perfectly okay with it, remember Mrs. Turner?"

"Love? What are you going on about?"

"Yes, love, those feelings are you loving Mr. Watson, he's a good one too. I expect an invitation."

"I highly doubt what I'm feeling is love." Sherlock informed Mrs. Hudson who seemed far too happy with the thought of Sherlock in love. Ludicrous.

"But of course it is. You know what? I have just the thing for you." Mrs. Hudson got up and pulled a worn book from her shelves. "Here, read this. It will all make sense."

Sherlock grabbed the book from Mrs. Hudson. Nondescript book, older, well loved, her favourite novel? "I'm sure this will be a fascinating read. I have to go though. John's probably wondering if I've run off on him again. Actually, I believe he might call Lestrade if concerned enough." Sherlock trailed off when he realised that Mrs. Hudson was just staring at him with a small wistful smile. He slowly left her flat before venturing up the stairs into his own lifting up an eyebrow when John looked up from his mobile and gave an embarrassed sort of grin.

"I was just about to text you, thought you ran off again."

"You jump to conclusions much too quickly. I would obviously never leave without my blogger." Sherlock gave a smile as he tried to ignore what the woman downstairs had said only minutes ago.  
….

Yes, he blames Mrs. Hudson entirely. She gave him this book which made Sherlock realise many things, love being the main problem. Love was a tedious thing. According to his book, it was wondrous and beautiful. Sherlock only found it to be irritating, but he wants it. However much he'd deny it if asked, he wants this feeling redirected towards him, the jumble of chemical reactions aimed towards him, too bad that won't happen. John's straight and even if John wasn't, Sherlock isn't exactly what one might call a perfect mate. A buzz was felt against Sherlock's thigh. Any thought of unrequited love flew out the window for now, Lestrade has sent a case!

Murder, Kings Cross. Please come-GL


	2. King's Cross

Murder, Kings Cross. Please Come –GL

Sherlock bared his teeth in a grin as he stood up. There was a case! His last one had been what, four days ago? Fantastic! It must be an exciting one if Lestrade was contacting him right away. He had to get to King's Cross, his mind was racing. Time? 6am, a cab would be best, maybe tube? No, Sherlock remembered that his Oyster card was destroyed after a dip in the Thames (Something's are better left unexplained). John, that's right, John has to come! He's not working at the surgery today, should be back with milk soon. The incubating bacterium had gone through binary fission at a spectacular rate in the old milk and quickly turned it putrid. Sherlock opened his mobile and went to the messages area.

_Come back, we don't require milk. Something much better has come up. Kings Cross, murder.–SH_

_Bzzt_

I've already bought it, I'm almost back. Five minutes –JW.

Sherlock grinned at his phone. Before typing again

_Not quick enough. Coming down to find you, and then we're going to get in a cab and go to King's Cross. –SH_

_Bzzt_

And what will happen to the milk? I'm not throwing a quid away and leaving the milk on the street.

_Why not? This is much more exciting, it's only a pound. You forgot to put your initials as well, what have I told you? –SH_

_Bzzt_

It's wasteful.

_Bzzt_

-JW* Happy?-JW

_Immeasurably-SH_

...

Sherlock waited, five minutes took forever when you thought about each tick of the second hand. Counting them was even worse. 263 seconds down, 37 to go. Is that a rattling at the door? He leapt up from the chair and scanned the room. Did he clean up the milk that had unfortunately spilt all over the table? (Elbows are pesky things at times, that and miscalculations on distance). Everything appeared to be in order, wait, best not keep that out in plain sight. Sherlock crouched down to pick up the discarded novel and place it amongst the scientific books lining the wall. Victorian homages to love, they were always so sentimental in their language. Did people really go to the person of their affections and tell them _'My sweet, we must leave this accursed town. The break of day draws near, I have arranged for a carriage to meet us outside the walls of town. We have naught but your dowry, but make do of it we will. '_ Would they really speak like that? Or was it merely bad writing on the author's part? Either way, informative, they described the symptoms well once all the ways to compare the heart to sugar, spice and everything nice had been used up.

"Sherlock? Here?" John voice called as he stepped into the room.

"Yes, John, you're here, good. Let's go, we have a crime scene to investigate!" Sherlock clapped his hands together as the shrugged on his coat and flicked the collar up (much to the amusement of John).

"And this is why we don't keep you from cases." John shook his head as he went over to put the milk in the refrigerator. "Jesus, Sherlock, if you're going to be so impatient, go down and hail a taxi."

Sherlock felt no particular inclination to leave John though. He was waiting and simply watched as the other man put away them milk (fastidiously ignoring the foot). Once they stepped out of the flat that was a different story. Sherlock rushed down the stairs and expertly waved over a cab which was no easy feat at times. He then proceeded to all but shove John inside and practically barked 'King's Cross' to the cabbie. Then, because this truly was Sherlock's _lucky_ day, they encountered traffic. It was only the knowledge that running would take just as long that prevented him from jumping out.

"Great, the body will have liquefied inside by now! Pancreas will be gone." Sherlock began to vehemently rant.

"Sherlock, calm down, four days, you've had four days without a case. The body is probably not even a third of the way through rigor mortis."

"It would liquefy in spite." Sherlock faintly recognised how ridiculous he was sounding but honestly couldn't be bothered to care. His mind was starting to _rot_. He could practically feel it as he slumped against the back of the seat and fumed until they arrived. Once the car had stopped in front of the Station, he flounced out and left John to deal with paying.

…

"Ride back is on you, you arse. I could only just pay." John practically growled as they walked to greet Lestrade who explained the case. The crime scene itself sounded interesting to say the least. Twelve dead, ten ticket masters and two security guards. Deaths were at approximately 4:30. Found at 4:55, 5 minutes before the station opens. All show signs of convulsions. At least that's what Lestrade said as he handed over masks. Three others knocked unconscious, one in a coma.

"Traces of cyanide found in the area, lots of it too." Greg snapped a mask over his own face as John pulled on a pair of coveralls and Sherlock only put on gloves (how he got away with that, no one knew).

"Obviously, if the deaths were at 4:30 and in such a large area. Hydrogen Cyanide disperses quickly, and rises up. If any of us become poisoned, it will only result in vomiting and elevated heart rate." Sherlock informed the DI haughtily but never the less snapped his own mask over his face as he followed John and the Inspector to the crime scene.

"Yeah, only vomiting and increased heart rate." Lestrade scoffed "The BTP are here by the way. They're checking the area for anything that might've emitted the gas."

"Just keep them away from the bodies. Who's running forensics?"

"Anderson."

"Fantastic, keep the buffoon away from the bodies, It'd be a shame if he were to become a suspect." Sherlock said sounding as if it wouldn't be a shame at all.

"Sherlock." John's voice went a little deeper as he tried to sound menacing; all it did was make Sherlock uncomfortable and try to focus his mind on the work and _only _the work.

"It would, I'd hate to lose such a talented member of the Met. Oh look, there's a victim!" Sherlock completely ignored the police surrounding the area. "This one is early 30s; I'd say 33, the laugh lines. She's married, or rather was. Died of convulsions and, skin is slightly blue, oxygen deprivation. All signs point to hydrogen cyanide." Sherlock pulled off the mask and sniffed the air. "Almonds, definitely traces of cyanide left. John?"

John approached the body looking ridiculous in the blue coveralls and mask. Crouching, he gently pressed a gloved finger to the victims' throat before examining the airway and the pupils. "She shows all signs of cyanide poisoning but it also points to another form of entry. Not ingestion, the throat isn't damaged enough. I'd say injection, but we'd have to find the site of injection to be sure. Good?" John looked up at Sherlock who had the strange look that he adopted whenever John has said something particularly brilliant.

"Yes, of course, injection! Fantastic! I need to examine the other security guard that was found in the surveillance room. Oh this _is_ fantastic!" Sherlock saw John shake his head (apparently it's wrong to show excitement at crime scenes). "Lestrade, examine the ticket masters for injection, I doubt we'll find them with it."

The other security guard did, in fact, show signs of injection. The interesting part of this was that the guard was severely allergic to bees and kept an anapen on him at all times (even more important now that spring had hit). The killer was clever, but confidence was his downfall. The anapen was found on the floor by the body and a dead bee nearby. They had been meticulous in planting evidence suggesting a severe reaction to a sting but it doesn't work when you stab them with the anapen after the cyanide and insert it a millimetre off of the other injection site. Sherlock practically skipped back to Lestrade who was talking to members of the BTP.

"Detective Inspector, I do believe there was a security breach. Check for any signs of hacking." Sherlock turned to the BTP. "Have you located the gas bomb?"

"It's being inspected now for any DNA evidence." A petite brunette informed Sherlock looking scandalised at his lack of protective coverings. She turned to Lestrade "All signs are pointing towards an act of terrorism. Should we invol-"

Sherlock cut her off "Don't you dare, and I expect any signs of DNA relayed back to me. Though I doubt you'll find anything. The killer was meticulous, well, killers. This all points to a group effort. You need one to detonate the cyanide bomb, one, possibly two, to inject the guards and one to hack. That doesn't even account for potential watch dogs. They put down the security systems, or did they work here at one point? They were knowledgeable about the area. Those in charge of taking care of the workers had been here at one point. The computers have access to something, next step is finding out what and if there are traces of the poison in areas other than throughout the respiratory system."

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant." John gave his usual exclamation of awe as the others around the Consulting Detective just looked gobsmacked. The praise made Sherlocks' chest tighten and grow warm. If he flushed from the praise, no one commented. Contentment so great filled Sherlock that he probably wouldn't have cared if someone had.

"Mediocre." Sherlock flashed a grin at the Doctor. "Now, samples."

…

With samples in hand (That they may or may not have permission to have), Sherlock and John left the crime scene on a high that only a puzzle could bring. Then at Bart's John watched as Sherlock studied the samples. He carefully prepared each one and put them in test tubes.

"Iron Sulphate." Sherlock reached out his hand as he waited for John to put said item into it. Once that was added to the samples, he then added the important mineral acid and watched as two of the samples turned Prussian Blue. "I knew it! It wasn't just localised to the airways on the others! It wasn't pure cyanide either! Brilliant, I have to go to Scotland Yard. Fascinating! Check the employment records, autopsy results." Sherlock rambled as he rushed out the door leaving John smiling in the laboratory.

…

The case actually lasted three weeks. It seemed every twist and turn had them encounter a new obstacle until they found out about the underground ring of terrorists who had in fact been looking up government documents and private files via the Station. It was fascinating, adrenaline inducing, and involved near death experiences. Sherlock fallen into the Thames (again) and ruined his new Oyster card (again). They had been at gun point once or twice (trying to infiltrate a terrorist organisation was not as easy as it looked on the telly). Then there was the mandatory celebration at Angelo's.

"Sherlock! And Sherlock's date! How have you been? Seen you all over the papers again, King's Cross case, eh?" Angelo's boisterous voice rang out. "What can I get you? Usual?"

For once Sherlock was starving (that does happen after three weeks of hardly eating) but he let John do the ordering. "The usual end of case meal."

"For course, anything for Sherlock and his Doctor. I'll get another candle, one of the romantic ones." Angelo walked to the back of the room.

"I'm not his date!" John called to the retreating back of Angelo which caused Sherlock's heart to sink. John was right, he wasn't his date. It wasn't a date the first time (then again, Sherlock hadn't been interested in a date at the time) and it wasn't this time either. A revelation hit Sherlock (He was being a bit slower than usual, he had just gone three weeks without properly eating or sleeping). He wanted it to be a date, how odd. Dating was expensive, unnecessary; you already knew you liked each other, what was the point in only meeting in formal circumstances? Yet at the same time, it sounded oddly appealing. He and John seated closer in the booth, maybe holding hands (would he be opposed to such a thing? Sherlock never had liked being touched, but he felt that John might be the exception). Laughing quietly at jokes only they found funny and being in their own world. Sherlock feels he might actually like the idea of dating John. Then he remembers that he isn't, not only isn't, won't ever seems more appropriate.

"Sherlock?" A hand waves in front of his face. "Sherlock? Are you okay? Something wrong?" Sherlock refocused on the world around him and put up a wall between him and his emotions.

"Yes, of course, don't be ridiculous." It was easy enough to look pleased (he HAD just brought down an organisation).

"Well, you got them! Cheers." John told Sherlock raising up the glass that Angelo brought over, even if it was only water (The more Harry drank, the more John avoided alcohol).

"_We_ got them." Sherlock replied with a smile as he clinked his own water against Johns. "I've never understood this cheers nonsense." He mused which caused John to laugh and Sherlock's heart to swell even more than it already has.

…

Week one of not going to a Crime Scene and Sherlock was starting to go mad. He had been banned from crime scenes for three weeks for taking evidence without permission (the fact that it helped solve the case didn't help his own case at all). Sherlock had almost thought about resorting to drugs if things got worse (thought of Johns disappointment made him stop). Instead, you could see multiple nicotine patches on his arm at all times. Each time Sherlock slapped on a patch, John would furrow his brow and look as if he was about to blow a gasket. He needed to find a new way to distract himself, it wouldn't do to get into a row with John and have the Doctor stay at Sarah's (even if he only ever got as far as the couch). Sherlock still hadn't figured out anymore of this love nonsense, it made no sense. How was such a driving force in crime such a mystery to him? It was this thought that made him start to research, even if he couldn't research _with _John, the internet would be his first stop (he'd rather not go to a bookshop). Search Engines have proven to be useful in the past, why not now? It also helped that John was at the surgery and would not be questioning him on the topic.

Sherlock punched his query into the search engine (top love stories of all time; go big or go home). 1,900,000,000 search results, (or from Sherlocks eyes, 1.9x10^9) that seemed promising. It seemed that half directed him to film sites and the other half came from women's magazines. The one declaring 40 greatest love stories of all time (novels only) looked promising though. Sherlock opened Amazon in a new tab to start adding novels and films to his 'basket'. Then, once it contained a sufficient amount, he went to the checkout and ordered it (after clicking one day shipping of course, he was bored a_nd _impatient). This shall be interesting indeed.


	3. Bedfordshire

The surgery was never particularly exciting, at least not to John (but to be fair, he was an adrenaline junkie), but money was money and having a place away from everything else was a bonus. Some of the patients that turned up too, something's you should really just go to A&E for. This was the thought currently running through his head as Sarah was telling him about the out-of-hours visit she made to someone's house the day before in which the patient had got himself stuck in a compromising position (the things people will do to get off). It was a good way to start the morning. He had already looked at his appointments and was preparing himself for a day full of vaccinations. Sarah was a particularly brilliant story teller too he thought as she got to the end of the tale where the man's wife got home.

"She just walked in and began to laugh! It was almost worth driving all the way out and dealing with a man who fancied himself a contortionist." Sarah finished which just caused John to laugh heartily.

"She's never going to let him forget that, is she?"

"Not a chance, the look on her face, you should've seen it!" Sarah let out a pleasant laugh before looking down at her watch. "Oh, I've got to collect the next patient, I'm betting on allergy shots."

"Good luck. I start my first round in ten." John headed away from Sarah's retreating back as he rolled up his sleeves in anticipation of a relatively busy day.

…

Five shots, two cases of a stomach bug, one strep throat and a jumble of random ails later, John returned home. Once inside, he found a package on the kitchen table with a note.

_John,_

_This was delivered this morning and _

_I signed for it while you were at the surgery._

_-Mrs. H_

He hadn't ordered a parcel. At least not from Amazon, had he forgotten about it? Must've, it wouldn't be the first time, especially when quicker shipping was so expensive. Shrugging, John grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the tape off the box. With the flaps no longer being taped down, he opened it almost missing the lack of packing peanuts, when had they replaced them with air filled bags? Then John looked down at the contents. What the…?

It was an array of romance novels and films. Was this the right box? He picked up the order confirmation receipt, it was definitely to him. Why the hell would he buy these? What exactly were they of specifically? He began to pull them out of their container. The books were _Pride & Prejudice, __Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_(it was indeed in the original French), a pristine copy _of Shakespeare's complete works, Jane Eyre,_ and, was that _The Notebook_? The films were _The Titanic, When Harry Met Sally, Bridget Jones's Diary, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_, and _Silence of the Lambs_. Wait. Silence of the Lambs? That was one of the few movies Sherlock tolerated (he analysed it as in depth as possible) it was, incidentally, the one that was broken after some chav thought it would be a fantastic idea to try and rob them. Sherlock. Why would he need these? Wait, no, why had he bought them with John's amazon account? How much did this all cost? That bloody…was that the door? Good, Sherlock's back from talking to the irregulars.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell is this?" John watched as Sherlock coolly shrugged of his jacket, stupid, beautiful bastard with his cheekbones, and hair, and…John reminded himself to focus and thought back to the price. "You've spent over £100 on romance novels and films?" That statement just caused Sherlock eye John critically.

"Ah, good. They arrive much quicker than anticipated. I selected the longer shipping process to save you money."

"You saved me money?" John gave an exasperated laugh. "Right, because spending £100 without asking is definitely saving _me_ money. What's it for then, a case?"

"Yes…" Sherlock said vaguely (which was quite atypical for him). He walked over to the table with the new items and then furrowed his brow at John. "Cases, yes."

"So Greg has let you back on?"

"He seems to be vigilant in his punishment this time. I believe he won't give in for another two days. This is something else to figure out."

"And what's that, hmm?"

"Nothing, irrelevant and unimportant." Sherlock gathered the items into his arms made his way to his room. He then closed the door and left John standing there confused as can be.

…

Now there were many things that John knew. Perhaps not as much as Sherlock, though he was secure in that the knowledge he had of astronomy far outweighed Sherlocks. Some of the items that he knew he would never share with the other man. The biggest one of these things was that he loved the Detective. For the record, he wasn't _gay._ Being gay and being attracted to a man aren't always mutual. He wasn't attracted to enough men to call himself bi either. More pushing a two on the Kinsey scale, it was still more the idea that he'd fall in love with whoever he damn well please. That person being Sherlock, and hard too. He supposed that it started to appear during their first encounter with Moriarty. They look on Sherlocks face when John first revealed himself at the pool. The hurt and shock that briefly flickered across his face when he saw John strapped to semtex, did something to the Doctor. He knew the attraction was there alright, the 'crush' as it could be put (though he felt like a school girl for thinking of it like that) was when they were investigating The Black Lotus smugglers. Love though, it hadn't felt like love until that day at the pool when he was preparing to tackle them into the pool for when Sherlock shot the explosives. That's when he realised what it is he might just be feeling.

Then Irene came. Now John knew Sherlock never loved Irene, he wasn't even sure if Sherlock could feel romantic love. What Sherlock did feel was respect and an odd joy in knowing that there was someone just as cunning as he. She was The Woman to him, the only one who ever beat him. She was the one who had made John realise just how far those feelings of love went too. He was jealous, there was no denying that. Irene clearly wanted Sherlock and at the time, John was convinced that Sherlock wanted her as well. John figured out the extent of his feelings when they first paid a visit to Miss Adler. It got progressively worse since (especially after the Christmas Fiasco with Molly). Poor girl. Then there was that horrifying moment where John thought that Sherlock had figured it out when he was listening to Irene and John in the warehouse.

Now, he was stuck to just being friends. He was fine with that…well, not fine, but he could manage and ignore it. Sherlock was the one who had helped John after he returned invalidated from Afghanistan. John didn't even know where he would be if he hadn't met Sherlock. He reminded himself that next time he went to the pub with Mike, he was going to pay, and Mike drank _a lot. _

Would he like to be with Sherlock? Yes. Would it matter if he never was? No. John had Sherlock even if it wasn't in the way he might've wanted it, and that was fine. Honestly.

…

"Of course Darcy didn't steal the others fiancé!" Sherlock started shouting abuse at the screen whilst observing the pitiful attempts at making Darcy extremely unlikeable.

"Onto Bridget Jones's Diary then?" John asked as he looked up from the computer where he was typing out the last case (The Case of King's Cross). Sherlock had decided to come out of his room with all the films in hand. He had been watching Four Weddings and a Funeral last, but that must've finished some time ago.

"What idiots. Of course Darcy was the one to be cheated on!"

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock gave John his _obvious _look.

"The jumper, John. It's a reindeer, that and the fact that she is obviously going to go for the underdog. Everyone loves a good underdog story. Sickening."

"Oh come off it, she could've ended with her boss."

"You saying could've only proves my point." Sherlock absently stated as he stared at the telly. Then John began to laugh. They were debating a film meant for twenty something females! Here were two thirty year old men discussing the plot of a cliché movie.

"Christ, are we really discussing this?" John got up from the table and went to Sherlock on the sofa, "budge over, I like this part."

"In response to that question, I believe I'm required to make a general comment about the state of your masculinity due to the fact you have a favourite part in this drivel." He nonetheless shifted over to John could join him.

"Oh sod off and just watch Bridget make a horrible mistake."

The conversation ended after this comment as both men stared at the bumbling main character. It was a comfortable silence though. Both were watching (even if one was observing and the other truly enjoying it). As they watched, they subconsciously shifted closer together until they were practically leaning against each other. They were close enough that John could feel the warmth radiating between them. John only had to relax. That was it, but all good things can't last. Her friends, Paris, the flat, forgetting trousers, it was nearly over. The screen faded out and the credits started up, too late now.

"Illuminating, even if she _was_ insipid at times and the jokes were distasteful. A little more refined than absurdist humour."

"Remind me to never show you any Monty Python. At least while I'm in the room and can hear you complain."

"Monty Python, I have never seen the appeal. I was forced into watching some of Monty Python's Flying Circus with Ms Hudson once. Horrid."

"I'm just going to ignore that last statement. What's next on the list?"

"Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind, it sounds intriguing."

It was indeed intriguing. John got confused at several points with how quickly it jumped around, but Sherlock actually seemed to be completely engrossed. He admitted that the idea of wiping memories purposefully was an intriguing concept. It actually looked as if he were _enjoying _himself. Sherlock deplored most films; he never let John drag him to the theatre. To have him express anything resembling a compliment towards one was extremely rare being far and in-between. Yet by the time the film was done, John was knackered.

"In the words of Bridget Jones, I'm off to Bedfordshire." John remarked getting up from the sofa and stretching.

"John." Sherlock was looking right at the Doctor. "I'm curious, and I can never predict your responses. It causes endless frustration on my part. What would you do if the opportunity arose for you to wipe your memories?" John blinked at Sherlock wondering what brought this on.

"I wouldn't do it. Sounds a bit unpleasant, yeah?" John gave a smile before scratching his chin thoughtfully. "There've been moments where I've wished I could, but I would regret it."

"Interesting." Sherlock gave a curt nod.

"Would you ever consider it?"

"The idea is appealing, but no, I don't think I would. You were saying something about Bedfordshire?"

John gave a soft smile "I have another shift tomorrow, goodnight." John began to move away before turning briefly "get some sleep before seven am, doctors' orders!" as John went up the stairs, he could've sworn that he heard Sherlock bid goodnight…but no, that couldn't be right.


End file.
